


Pain and Prescription

by Edhla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edhla/pseuds/Edhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of canon-compliant sickfic whumpy one-shots from series 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man Flu

**Author's Note:**

> Ever wondered why Lestrade was mysteriously absent during The Blind Banker? Me too. Here's what happened afterwards.

Lestrade twitched violently out of sleep. For a few seconds he blinked in confusion, wondering where the hell he was. The realisation came to him in one fell swoop: he was at the Blue Lantern Hotel because Julie had thrown him out three days ago; he felt like shit, and he'd woken because someone was banging loudly on the door. He sat up awkwardly. Couldn't be staff, unless the building was on fire. He couldn't remember his own date of birth at that moment, but he distinctly remembered that he'd put a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door before collapsing into bed to sleep out the rabid flu he'd managed to catch from somewhere.

The knocking wasn't going away – it was loud, rapid and impatient, and going straight through his pounding head. He winced and dragged himself to his feet, pausing to stretch his aching legs before shuffling over to the door and sliding it open, chain attached.

_Shit. Should have expected this._

There was no way Sherlock was going to leave, so the only option was to let him in. Coughing into one fist, Lestrade opened the door and Sherlock strode past him sulkily.

_In a strop again. I knew he'd hate Dimmock._

"Lestrade, if you're going to use a marital tiff as an excuse to call into work when there's an important case on, don't ever leave that _idiot_ Dimmock in charge again. I despise him." Sherlock barged into the little room, heading straight for the kitchenette as if he owned the place.

"Not my fault. I don't pick my replacements," Lestrade said hoarsely, coughing into his hand again. "How'd you find me?"

"Oh, don't insult me. Julie's thrown you out again, and you'd obviously choose a modestly priced but not dingy hotel located approximately halfway between your children and your workplace. Child's play."

Lestrade sighed, then coughed again. That dry hack was driving him crazy. "Yeah, um. Anyway, not a good time for it right now," he said.

Sherlock was making instant coffee – for himself, since it would never have crossed his mind that he should offer any to Lestrade. At this he looked up, spoon suspended in mid air as his gaze darted over Lestrade from head to toe for a few silent seconds.

"You're ill," he said.

"I feel like shit, Sherlock." Lestrade went over to the small desk bolted to the wall where he'd placed a box of tissues. The box was looking perilously close to empty.

Sherlock glanced over to the unmade bed and then back to Lestrade, who was trying not to blow his nose – that had been a bad idea the night before, and had started an hour-long nosebleed he'd nearly gone to the A & E for. Taking the last handful of tissues in the box, he shuffled back over to the bed, sitting down and rubbing the back of his head with his palm.

"Have you… consulted a doctor…?" Sherlock asked him awkwardly. He shook his head.

"No need. It's just the flu," he said, voice now muffled by the tissues.

"You're certain?"

Lestrade gave him a withering look. "It's flu, Sherlock. If you start suggesting I've got some horrible deadly disease you read about in a journal somewhere –"

Sherlock, who had crossed the room to him while he'd been speaking, put one cool, thin-fingered hand on his forehead.

"Moderate to high fever," he said disapprovingly.

"Yeah, that's just flu, too." Lestrade gently slapped his hand away. "I'll be fine once I have a hot shower and sleep it off. Take the hint." He rose, a little painfully, and made his way over to the bathroom.

"I'll wait," Sherlock said, folding his arms.

"That'd be right."

Lestrade slammed the bathroom door after himself and threw off his track pants and t-shirt as quickly as possible under the frigid fluorescent light. The water was reluctant to run at a reasonable temperature, and it was a few bone-chilling moments before he was able to step under the hot shower spray. Tilting his head back under it, he reeled, lost his balance and staggered, grabbing at the soap shelf to steady himself and grateful when it didn't collapse under his weight and crash onto the tiles at his feet.

_Shit. I'm a lot dizzier than I was last night._

He slid down onto the tiles, aching head still firmly under the flow of hot water. Yes, he was doing this. He was having a shower… sitting down. And his Man Card was going to be revoked forever if a soul ever knew about it. He wondered dully if Sherlock would be able to deduce it when he finally had to emerge from the bathroom and face the annoying git again. Sherlock was muttering away in a baritone out there, probably on the phone to somebody.

As the minutes went on, Lestrade forgot that the main point of a shower was to get clean; the hot water was lulling him to sleep. He shut his eyes and let himself haze out for a while, only startling back on full alert when hot water filled his nostrils and slid up to the back of his throat. He coughed it out, blew his nose into his hand (again hoping Sherlock wouldn't deduce that one) and reached up to turn the tap off.

It was only when he clambered to his feet and grabbed the nearest towel that he realised he'd forgotten to bring clean clothes into the bathroom with him. And there was no way that he was wandering out in a towel while He Who Had No Social Skills was out there. The clothes he'd been wearing probably stank of the heavy sweat he'd been in all day – it was hard to tell with his nose all bunged up the way it was. But that was going to have to be Sherlock's problem. Slithering back into his clothes, he dried his hair as best he could with his towel and reluctantly went back out to the room, stumbling back over to the bed. He curled up on it with his back against the wall and his knees to his chest, shivering.

Maybe wetting his hair had been a bad idea.

Sherlock was still in the kitchenette, though Lestrade did his best to ignore him. He was trying to work out the most effective (and not necessarily the most tactful) way of saying "go away" to him when Sherlock, who had crossed the room without his noticing, nudged him and put a hot mug in his hand.

"What's this?" he asked, blinking in confusion. His question had just come out in one thick-tongued, incomprehensible slur.

"Soup," Sherlock said with a straight face. Lestrade realised he'd found the box of instant soup packets he'd bought on the way to checking in, and which he'd thrown in the desk drawer and hadn't bothered with since. "I called John. He said to give it to you. You've clearly not eaten anything in two days."

"Yeah, trying to beat your record," Lestrade mumbled into the cup, taking a sip of what appeared to be hot water with clumps of soup powder floating in it like gravelly icebergs. But it was hot, and it had badly-needed calories. Sherlock had been a little under the mark on how long it had been since he'd had the energy or inclination for anything that wasn't coffee, so he sipped it patiently.

Sherlock didn't know how to make instant soup. _Instant soup._

Had he never added a packet of soup powder to hot water in his life before?

"Better?" Sherlock asked hopefully. Lestrade, coughing a little, gave him an encouraging thumbs-up, remembering all those horrible breakfasts of burnt toast and stone-cold eggs that the kids had made him for Father's Day in years gone by. As if taking the hint, Sherlock said nothing for the next few minutes, which if anything was even weirder and more unsettling than when he talked non-stop at high speed for hours on end.

When he'd reached the bottom of the cup, Lestrade got up to bring it back to the sink. He'd taken two steps when both calves seized up viciously.

"Oh, _Christ-_ " he hissed, dropping the mug as his legs gave way and a grey mist flooded the room. He scrabbled to stop himself falling; bony hands clutched him roughly under the armpits. He sank down a little against them as Sherlock steered him back down onto the bed.

"You're dehydrated," Sherlock muttered, plucking the mug off the floor and taking it back to the sink. Lestrade slumped over, forehead on his knees, until Sherlock nudged him to sit up again. He put another cup in his hand, but this one was filled with cold water. Then he opened Lestrade's other hand and dropped two white pills into his palm. Lestrade looked at them blankly for a few seconds, trying to keep his trembling hand still. "What's this?"

"Paracetamol." Sherlock sighed. "What did you _suppose_ I'd give you for raging influenza?"

"Dunno. Ringer of cocaine?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "No, that's the cure for migraines. Do try to remember these things, Lestrade."

Smiling a little, Lestrade tipped the paracetamol down the hatch and managed to drink most of the glass of water, which Sherlock took back to the sink. Then he slumped over onto the bed again, tucking his hands under his armpits.

_Freezing._

"John's on his way now," Sherlock said, pulling the duvet over him.

"Is 'e?" Lestrade mumbled. "Good for 'im."

"He says you should try to sleep if you can."

"I would do, if only you'd shut up."

The answer was profound, instant, almost _shocking_ silence. Sherlock went back to the kitchen and boiled the kettle again, presumably going back to making his own cup of coffee this time. Lestrade, in between violent bursts of that bloody annoying cough that had kept him up for most of the night before, listened to him patter around softly for a few minutes. He was just on the verge of sleep when he heard Sherlock pull the desk chair out and sit down.

"Sherlock?" he slurred.

"Mmm?"

"Thanks."

"I thought you were sleeping."

Lestrade pulled the duvet tighter around himself, smiling briefly as he waded into a feverish sleep.


	2. Taking the Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks after Moriarty had tried to kill him and John at the pool, he'd been sitting in the kitchen experimenting with copper wiring, which he'd been cutting with a stanley knife.
> 
> \- Ch 8 of Four Little Bottles (see profile.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between The Great Game and A Scandal in Belgravia.

Pulling the blade out of the wound had been sheer instinct, but it had been a mistake.

For nearly a full minute, Sherlock simply stared at the orange-handled stanley knife in his hand. His initial thought was that it had missed somehow, even though dark droplets were sliding down the blade. He'd felt hot blood spreading out from the wound and soaking his trousers well before he felt the pain.

Dropping the knife onto the floor, he clamped both palms over the wet patch on his trousers, which _did_ hurt. The knife had sliced directly through the material and he could feel the depth of the laceration under his hands. Cherry-coloured blood seeped up through the webs of his fingers, and the flow of blood did not seem to be letting up as the minutes passed. Sticky torrents dribbled down his thigh toward the seat of the chair and down his calves to rest in warm globs on the back of his shoe.

_Elevate it, you idiot!_

But another voice in his head was shouting, too, loud and clear: _Don't move._

Sherlock was on the record as later claiming that neither of his oh-so-helpful inner voices ever suggested that it might be an idea to seek medical attention for his injury. It was only when the room had started to spin that he'd grudgingly conceded that a _doctor_ was playing Minecraft upstairs on his laptop.

"John..."

The first appeal was raspy and weak. In the pause that followed, he heard nothing upstairs. The only sounds in the building were the clink of Mrs Hudson downstairs washing the dishes.

_"John!"_

John's bedroom door flew open, and Sherlock heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs; John had taken them three at a time, if he'd counted right. And then he was standing there in the kitchen doorway, taking stock of the scene.

"Right," he said. "Okay."

Where was he going...? Oh - bathroom. He was back a few seconds later with a dark blue towel in his hands. Leaning across to the bottom kitchen drawer, he pulled out a pair of scissors. "Okay. What was it?" He glanced at the knife on the floor and nodded in comprehension. "Let's have a look at what you've done..."

"Have you any idea how much these trousers cost me -?"

"Nope. And to tell you the truth, I really don't care. Bit more worried about the hole in your _skin_ right now. Anyway, _you_ cut a hole in them first, remember? You can hardly blame me for that." John slid the scissor blades across where the blade had already ripped the material, widening the gap in the fabric and pulling it back to inspect the wound. Sherlock flinched and sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"It's deep," John said. "Still, you're not spurting blood across the ceiling, which is always good to see. Hold that there. Hard as you can take it."

He laid the towel across Sherlock's lap and ducked over to pick up the landline receiver. Cradling it between his ear and shoulder, he knelt back down on the bloodstained floor, holding the towel down on the wound so hard that Sherlock flinched.

"I know. Got to be done, sorry," John said vaguely. "I - yes, hi, I need an ambulance, please... 221B Baker Street. Knife accident... deep laceration to the right thigh and a lot of blood loss. Not arterial... yeah, trust me on this one, I'm a doctor with a background in trauma..."

* * *

 

Sherlock later realised that it was John's clout as a medical professional that ensured he was en route to the University hospital less than twenty minutes later, and had been stitched up with impressive efficiency and care almost as soon as he was brought through the doors - on a trolley, though he'd fought John to be allowed to walk. Still, even that process took time, care and a local anaesthetic. It was six o'clock before John brought him home again and settled him in his grey armchair, a blanket over his aching thigh and a cup of sweet tea at his elbow.

"This is very inconvenient," he muttered, nursing his tea with more shakiness than he liked to admit to. "I'm sure they didn't really need to put that many stitches in..."

John had been mopping up the sticky, coagulated mess they'd left behind in the kitchen. At this, he put down the mop. "Sherlock," he said. "What the _bloody hell_ were you thinking?"

It was a few seconds before Sherlock, still groggy and immersed in his own thoughts, was able to register what John had just said. "Sorry, what?"

"Are you completely bollocking insane? Yeah, I know you and your oversized ego don't like to ask for help, but I thought even _you_ might be more intelligent than to pull something like that. You've got a flatmate upstairs, one who just happens to be a doctor, and here's you down here being a _fucking idiot_ trying to stem a serious bleeding wound on your own. Do you know how close that gash came to your femoral artery? Three quarters of an inch _._ You could have _died,_ Sherlock!"

There was profound silence for a few seconds. They looked at each other, both baffled, each for completely different reasons.

_I've never heard him use anything stronger than "bloody" before now. He must be quite upset... but...?_

Sherlock had never drawn such a blank on John's motivations and behaviour before. The man was generally as transparent as glass. He fidgeted. "Yes, well, I didn't," he finally remarked haughtily, as if it was an insult that anyone should suggest he react the same way to blood loss as everyone else on the planet. "I didn't even need a transfusion. Anyhow, the situation has been resolved, so I fail to see why you're so upset about it -"

"You fail to - oh, for God's _sake_." John covered his face with his hands for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. "Are you serious? Okay. Here's something for your hard-drive, Sherlock. Don't delete it: in the real world, people worry when their friends get hurt. And in the real world, people don't like worrying their friends when they could just _ask for help._ I know you're not very good with empathy, but come _on."_

Another short silence. Sherlock looked up at John, noting his body language, the size of his pupils.

"I've offended you," he said. "You think I don't trust you enough to ask for your help."

"And here we have another amazing deduction courtesy of Sherlock Holmes," John spat at him, confusing his Sherlock even further. "Anyway, look, I'm not having this argument with you. I'm going upstairs for a shower. I'll give you your medication when I'm done. In the meantime, don't get up."

"John -"

"Don't get up."

Sherlock's gaze followed John as he stalked out to the corridor and stormed up the stairs, leaving his bewildered flatmate behind.

_What in God's name was that all about...?_


	3. Cardiac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another set between seasons 1 and 2

The ceiling was a sort of spongy-looking grey marle, like none that Mycroft could remember ever seeing before. It seemed to be advancing and receding, and he couldn't quite get a clear idea of it. There was something on his face. And, as he reached up to pull it off, he realised that there was something stinging the back of his hand, too. Things stuck to his chest...

What in God's name was going on?

Answers came more quickly than he expected, when there was a squeak of low-heeled shoes in the doorway and a young woman swept into the room. Mycroft struggled to focus on her.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, in the false cheer required of her profession. She went to the IV monitor and started to punch in numbers. "Good to see you back with us, at last… you need to leave that on…" Mycroft had pulled off the ventilator mask and gasped for air, a contradiction that he couldn't process just then.

"What's going on?" he demanded. He'd meant for this to come out in his usual imperious way; instead, it was a raspy squeak that he'd had little to no control over the intonation of.

"You're in hospital, Mr Holmes," she told him. "You had yourself a bit of a cardiac episode this morning."

"I beg your _pardon?"_

"Now, don't get upset -"

"I'm not upset," he protested, once again annoyed at how squeaky he sounded. The oxygen, of course, but it didn't help his case. "But I demand to know what's going on, and why I'm in a hospital bed, with completely unsatisfactory bedclothing, and…"

_And with no underwear on, it appears._

Mycroft had just decided that an open-backed hospital gown was surely the most undignified item of clothing on earth. _Especially_ without underwear.

That was going to be his first directive. If his regular clothing was not restored to him immediately, he was going to be rather upset. And there were those who had learned that Mycroft Holmes was not a man to make rather upset. Heads tended to roll.

"As said, Mr Holmes, you had a heart attack."

Mycroft's head was spinning; like everything else, the nurse he was speaking to seemed to be hovering there, rather than standing. He lay back on his pillows and shut his eyes for a few seconds. "Are you sure?" he heard himself ask.

"Very sure. You were visiting your brother when you collapsed. You're very lucky that your brother-in-law knew exactly what to do, and that the ambulance had already arrived before you really went into distress."

_My brother-in-law…? Oh, dear Lord. I cannot wait to tell John about that._

* * *

Mycroft didn't have to wait very long for the opportunity to arise. Sherlock and John arrived twenty minutes later. Both had evidently been downstairs getting coffee from the cafeteria; if Sherlock's left sleeve wasn't enough to prove it, the styrofoam cup he held certainly was a giveaway. John hesitated in the doorway, as if unsure about whether he really should be witness to Mycroft in such a fragile state. Sherlock barged into the room and flounced down into a nearby chair, crossing his long legs and sipping his coffee in the most blatantly triumphant, _I-can-drink-this-and-you-can't_ way possible. "Not dying then after all, brother?" was his opener.

"My apologies," Mycroft returned, grateful that his voice was returning to him, and that the room seemed far less nebulous every minute that passed. "Just when you needed the money, too. I'll try to do better in future."

Sherlock was his brother's sole heir, and the fact was sometimes a joke and sometimes a sore point between them. Just then, even Mycroft wasn't entirely sure which applied. Sherlock huffed and kicked at the floor. "Do."

"Sherlock," John warned quietly.

"I'd intended to spend this morning composing a new piece," Sherlock went on. "But first you had to come around and interrupt me with some nonsense about some inconsequential antique that's gone missing -"

"A Middle Kingdom mummy isn't exactly 'some inconsequential antique', Sherlock."

"And then you had to go and do _this_ , and I'm told you're expected to be in here for at least a week."

"Feel free to go home and compose as you'd planned, then," Mycroft said, ignoring the look John shot Sherlock, and the slight shake of his head.

"No; no point. You've ruined my mood now," Sherlock complained. "You know I have to reach a certain emotional state to be able to compose. It'll be _weeks_ before I can get to that place again. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He plucked a sole cigarette out of his pocket and left the room, leaving John confused and more than a little disapproving in his wake.

Once he had gone, John hesitantly took up his seat.

"At the risk of being patronising, how are you feeling?" he asked at length.

"Rather as if I just suffered a heart attack," Mycroft said crossly. The last thing he needed was John Watson making concerned personal enquiries into his health.

"I can imagine."

"I doubt it."

"Okay."

A pause; Mycroft was considering whether to inform John that he had once again been mistaken for Sherlock's husband. "I was told you were of some assistance to me this morning," reluctantly came out of his mouth instead. "Thank you."

John's face twitched, and he glanced up at the ceiling for a moment.

"Sherlock feels guilty," Mycroft continued.

"Yes, he does."

Mycroft sighed. John had made it clear long ago that he wasn't going to spill out all of Sherlock's private details on cue, but he really was inexcusably obtuse at times. "Why?" he asked. "When last I checked, even Sherlock couldn't force a myocardial infarction on somebody." He smiled wryly. "Though I suspect he'd like that power."

John paused. "You don't remember what happened?"

"My last coherent memory is telling Sherlock about a colleague of mine, who's in a delicate situation that he may be able to assist with." Mycroft was picking at a stray thread on his blanket. "I doubt that's what you're referring to."

"You were… arguing with him when it happened," John ventured. "Nothing major. Just your usual Punch-and-Judy routine. I suppose he thinks that's what did you in." John decided not to elaborate on all the details, even though they painted a broader picture of Sherlock's reaction to his brother's state. He'd been holed up in his bedroom upstairs at the time, ostensibly blogging, actually Youtubing, and barely listening to the relentless Holmes bickering going on in the living room. Something petty, as usual. Then Sherlock's tone had abruptly become short and sharp. John had noted it, and had already risen to see what was wrong, when Sherlock had shouted his name up the stairs.

"And was it?"

"Well, I'm not a specialist, and I haven't seen your test results, but I doubt it," was John's immediate response. "After all, if arguing with Sherlock was enough to bring on a heart attack, we'd all have died long ago. Lifestyle. Believe it or not, a diet made up almost entirely of chocolate, booze and diet pills really doesn't do your cardiac system any favours. And neither does your not-so-secret pack-a-day habit."

"I -"

"Don't even bother to lie about it," John said. "Your weight's been bouncing around insanely this last spring, and Sherlock's had an idea about the pills for ages. As for the smoking, neither you nor Sherlock seem to be able to smell it, but I can. And so can Mrs Hudson."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You know, for two geniuses, you and your brother can be complete idiots when it comes to the basics, like not being dead. Your cardiologist must be thrilled about this."

"Probably. I haven't seen them yet."

"Well, I can tell you exactly what they're going to say."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yeah. A proper diet. No more dodgy pills from South America - are they even legal?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"And no more sugar binges. Quit smoking. Stop drinking every day. Regular exercise."

Mycroft winced. He hated exercise. He hated it so much that he grudged walking the short distance from his car to his office. Quitting smoking sounded like an easier and more enjoyable option, and he'd failed at that, nine times and counting.

"You don't have to run any marathons, so no need to look so terrified about it." John sounded amused. "Stairs instead of lifts. You know. That stuff."

"Wonderful."

John paused; then he got up, went to the doorway, leaned his head out and came back to his seat. "You care about Sherlock, right?" he suddenly asked.

"He's my brother," Mycroft conceded carefully. John nodded.

"So you care about him." This in I-thought-so tones. "So don't make him grieve for you, just 'cause you're too stubborn to eat properly, and too lazy to go for a walk every now and again. You got off lucky, Mycroft. It could have been so much worse. If you'd been at home on your own when it happened, you might've died." He got up. "I'm going to find Sherlock. Get some rest, okay?"

"You're not my doctor, John."

"And thank God for that. Bullying just one of you into not killing yourself with self-neglect is quite enough for me."


	4. Incident in Kentish Place

As John fumbled with the keys to the flat door of 221B Baker Street in the gloom of a damp June evening, he reflected to himself that there was only thing more tedious than a ten-hour shift at a dull medical clinic in the suburbs: a ten-hour shift at a dull medical clinic in the suburbs, as supervised by the woman who'd dumped you three weeks before.

 _And then coming home to a dark flat, without even a boiled kettle_ , he continued to himself as he opened the door to find the lights out, the telly off, and Sherlock Holmes nowhere to be seen. Sherlock had been home very little that week, hot on the case of some missing journalist named Bracker, or something. He'd not even noticed that Sarah was a thing of the past yet. It'd be a sheer miracle if it occurred to him to have something resembling dinner ready for when his flatmate finally got home from his day job.

As John made his way through the kitchen to the fridge, he heard his phone bloop out a text alert. Probably Sherlock. Probably some incomprehensible message like _Obvious_ or _Red car all along,_ or some other thing he'd need to spend ten minutes explaining once he got himself home which, if experience went for anything, mightn't actually be for several days. Sighing, he fished the phone out of his trouser pocket. What a surprise. Text from Sherlock… two texts, in fact, as well as four calls he'd managed to miss.

He frowned. _Four_ _missed_ _calls?_ Sherlock would rather have his fingernails pulled out with pliers than call his mobile… normally.

11 Kentish Place. Please hurry.

\- Today 6:11pm

Bring med case as available. NOW, JOHN

\- Today 6:13pm

_Hurry-please-med case-abbreviation-all caps-no period at the end-_

_Shit._

John's pulse somehow found its way into his throat, and he stood for a couple of seconds, reading the texts over again and feeling a cold flood of adrenaline through his chest.

Kentish Place was just around the corner.

Most of his work-related medical equipment stayed at the clinic overnight, but the First Aid kit sitting in the bottom of his wardrobe was well-stocked, provided Sherlock hadn't been raiding it again.

He took the stairs up to the third floor three at a time.

* * *

He found Kentish Place easily enough; a drab, dead-end alley, reeking strongly of the garbage accumulating in the open skip bin servicing a nearby restaurant. John stood on the kerb, looking around in the gathering dusk and trying to work out which was the door to number eleven. Before he could delay too long, a door to his right flung open with a bang.

"Sherlock -"

"In here."

John found himself in a grubby, dark hall; there were chunks of bare plaster where the walls should have been smoothed off and the sour stench of vomit and urine wafted through from an open doorway at the end. As Sherlock shut the door behind them, he heard it – someone crying.

He blundered through the doorway into a tiny room, lit by a solitary bare globe stuck askew into its fitting. On a single mattress, taking up most of the scarce floor-space, a girl lay curled up on her side. In the space of a few seconds John saw that she was filthy and dressed only in an oversized men's t-shirt and baggy shorts the colour of gangrene.

"Oh, God," he blurted out, kneeling on the mouldy, damp mattress beside her. "Sherlock, what the hell happened?" In the low light, he'd just noticed the grotesque swell of the girl's right forearm. He reached out and gently touched it, noting how hard and hot the flesh felt under his fingertips and the red and purple lines scribbled along the inner crook and wrist. The girl yelped and screwed her eyes shut. Sherlock took a step back while John took her pulse at the neck.

_Racing pulse-clammy-sweating-vomiting-shallow breathing-shivering-arm's a mess-_

_Sepsis._

"Call an ambulance," he barked over his shoulder, hurrying to pull his jumper off and drape it over the girl's bony shoulders.

"She's been assisting with my enquiries," Sherlock said, answering the first question as if he hadn't heard John's order. "She said she had some information as to the whereabouts of Lewis Bracter and we arranged to meet here. I came as arranged. She - "

"Sherlock, she's _going into shock,_ will you just shut up and call an ambulance!"

Sherlock took a step backward and pulled his phone out of his pocket; John suddenly realised that if the shivering girl huddled beside him was delirious, she'd just heard incomprehensible, angry shouting.

"Right," he said, swiping grimy clumps of matted hair off her damp forehead. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock calmly navigating the emergency services switchboard triage. "It's okay, we're going to help you, all right? I'm a doctor…"

"No," she slurred, so thickly that John barely understood her. "Don't want…"

"The paramedics don't call the police for drug issues, kid. We'll get you sorted out, and you're not in trouble. Try not to move, okay? Calm down."

 _Easy for me to say,_ he thought to himself. _I'm not lying delirious in my own vomit and piss._

"What's your name?" he asked her, brushing her hair back again. A heavy lock slid across her cheek, bringing a smear of milky mucus with it.

She didn't reply. The only human voice in earshot was Sherlock's, as he listed symptoms and directed the incoming ambulance to 11 Kentish Place with more accuracy and less emotion than a GPS system.

* * *

Once the ambulance arrived, John had been adamant. _No. Go back to the flat. You're just going to get in the way._

Sherlock had a sneaking feeling that he was eventually in for some kind of lecture, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. The girl had needed a doctor. He'd called one. Medical assistance had been rendered. What else did John expect him to do?

At nearly nine o'clock John arrived back at the flat, weary and slightly stiff. Sherlock, sitting at the kitchen table examining hair samples under a microscope, glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he blundered in. Soldier mode activated.

"Zoe," he said quietly. He folded his jacket neatly and placed it over the back of his armchair, _en route_ to the fridge.

Sherlock frowned.

"Her name is Zoe." John's hand rested on the fridge door handle. "Just, you know, in case you care. She won't die, by the way; I'm sure you'll be thrilled to hear about that. Do you know how old she is?"

Sherlock shut his eyes, trying to remember how the girl – Zoe – looked in a state of (admittedly basic) health, and derive information about her approximate age from it. Abruptly, he realised that this wasn't actually what John was asking him to do.

"I'm afraid I don't," he said.

"No, because you _don't_ care." John let go of the fridge door and rounded on him. "It never occurred to you to find out before you used her to gather information for your cases, did it? Just for the record, she's bloody _fourteen years old,_ Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."

"Right." John scrubbed at his tired eyes with the heel of his hands and sighed. "You don't _ever_ pay homeless kids to do your legwork for you again, Sherlock. If you're so desperate to finance someone's smack habit, try someone who's at least old enough to vote. Are we clear on that?"

"It's hardly my fault she's an addict. Anyhow, when I realised her condition -"

John chuckled grimly in disgust, and Sherlock stopped short, looking down at his slide again in silence so profound he could hear the clock in the living room ticking.

"Clear," he muttered.

The clock behind ticked on, marking out his heartbeats. A sudden gust of wind blew the kitchen blinds outward and then clattering back into their place. John leaned over the sink and shut the window with a bang.

"Okay," he said, returning to the fridge for the fourth time since leaving work. "Now I know it's a lot to ask of you, but is there anything actually _edible_ in here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support of this fic :) I'm always up for ideas for canon-compliant whumpy sickficcy one-shots from seasons 1 and 2 (and between them ;)) Please note I don't do anything explicit or squicky, e.g. rape.


	5. Cracks in the Ceiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another that takes place between the Great Game and A Scandal in Belgravia.

_I had no idea that there were so many cracks in this ceiling,_ Sherlock thought idly to himself, exhaling carefully through his mouth. _Mrs Hudson should really get those fixed._ Then, with a grimace, he brought himself back to the task at hand – edging his right hand over to the legs of the wooden stand where John usually put his cup of coffee. The clock had already ticked over thirty-four minutes and counting while he'd been running this new and painful experiment. After all, there wasn't much else he could do, lying on the floor with his feet slung awkwardly over the seat of his armchair.

"Mrs. _Hudson!"_

But the flat downstairs was as silent as a tomb. Mrs. Hudson had probably said something the day before about her going out, and where she was, and how long she'd be about it, but he had been thinking through a case yesterday and not listening. He knew exactly where John was, though – very inconveniently in the midst of a nine-hour shift at the dull clinic he still worked at.

Sherlock lunged out again, fingertips just touching the wooden stand as what felt like a red-hot poker stabbed viciously at his back. He yelped, then clenched his teeth. There was, after all, an up-side to his being stuck in this predicament with nobody home. There'd been nobody around to hear _that_.

With one last effort, he looped his fingers around the stand and dragged it forward. It teetered and then crashed down, missing his neck by about an inch; his phone, which had been resting innocently on top of it, skittered across the carpet toward the fireplace. After a blind scrabble with his fingertips, Sherlock's left hand closed around it and hooked it toward himself until he was scrolling through his list of contacts. _Emergency_ contacts, in this particular case.

Success. The purr of the dial tone against his ear sounded positively triumphant for three or so seconds before the call dropped in.

"Lestrade."

"It's me," Sherlock said. "Come to Baker Street. Now."

"Hang on, just a sec." There was a short, muffled series of footfalls and the snick of a closed door. Lestrade had taken refuge in the privacy of his office. "Yeah, you know, 'hello' or something wouldn't go astray once in a while," he said in a louder voice once the door had shut behind him. "And I'm in the middle of something important right now, Sherlock."

This was, for a change, not a lie. A family of three, a mother and two young daughters by the name of Hinkel, had been found stabbed to death in a flat in Neasden the day before. The ex-husband had a criminal record, including several charges for beating the living daylights out of Lona Hinkel. He also had a rock-solid alibi, since he'd been in the drunk-tank at Bishopsgate Police Station at the time his family had been killed. In such a case, 'not the husband' could well mean 'absolutely anyone.'

"Okay, let's hear it, then," Lestrade said. "What's so important that I need to come out to your flat right this minute?"

"I'm sort of… stuck."

"Stuck?"

"You heard me perfectly."

There was an insistent silence on the end of the line. Sherlock hitched a breath. "All right. Yesterday I sustained… some damage to my lower back…"

"Brilliant. How'd you manage that?"

"I was chasing a dangerous, armed perpetrator through a - fine. I lost my oyster card and did it jumping over a railway ticket barrier at Waterloo station, happy?"

Lestrade groaned. "And I suppose you want me to do a bit of sucking up to the transit police for you."

"I couldn't care less about the transit police."

There was a couple of seconds' pause before Lestrade finally tumbled to the correct deduction about the situation. "You're on the floor, or something, and you can't get up. Did you fall?"

Sherlock hedged. How exactly was he supposed to explain to Lestrade that he'd voluntarily got down on the floor to read more comfortably, without sounding like an idiot? "More of a misjudgement, really..."

"Can't this wait?"

"No. I've already been here for three hours waiting for Mrs. Hudson to come home, and I am now running a serious… bladder emergency and _if you laugh,_ I'm _never_ solving one of your cases for you again."

Lestrade coughed explosively. "Okay," he managed to say. "Okay. No laughing. Promise."

"This is serious…"

"Oh, yeah, I know. It sounds like a crisis of international proportions. The thing is, Sherlock, I dunno what you think I do when you're not around, but there's plenty of it to go around right now. I could _probably_ come out there and get you, but I'm on the clock, so I need to explain just where I'm going, and why…"

"Tell them I've been injured chasing a… carjacker…"

"Can't do. They'll ask for actual details on that one. Can I tell them about you jumping the railway barrier if I don't mention the bit where you're stuck on the floor, desperate for a piss?"

Sherlock hung up and threw the phone out to where it bounced back from the base of John's armchair. Would it be beyond Lestrade to just shut up and help him for once?

* * *

Apparently, it wasn't. What felt like hours later, Sherlock heard the street door downstairs open and shut, then Lestrade's heavy, purposeful tread on the stairs.

"Shut up," he said, just as Lestrade arrived in the living-room doorway. He turned his head toward him but, to his credit, Lestrade wasn't laughing.

"Christ," he said. "I thought you might've been exaggerating. Or just lying to me again. Where's your handler, anyway?"

"At work. Just help me up."

"Right." Lestrade retrieved one of the dining chairs from nearby and put it in front of Sherlock, giving it a pat. "Come on, then."

Sherlock lifted his head slightly to look at him, but the withering effect was a lost cause under the circumstances. "You're joking," he said.

"I'm not. I've got a mum who's eighty and thinks she's twenty, and I've been through about sixty million occupational health and safety videos at work, and this is the way we're doing this. If you weren't so worried about looking cool, you probably wouldn't have done your back in in the first place. Roll over. Need a hand?"

Sherlock did need a hand, but hell was going to freeze over before he asked for one. Finally he managed to roll over and then, gripping the front legs of the chair while Lestrade held it down, pulled himself to his knees and then up to his feet.

"Sit down for a sec," Lestrade said. "Let your head clear… oh, fine, do it your own way," he continued as Sherlock grabbed for the arm of John's armchair instead, swaying unsteadily for a moment before beginning to make his way across the kitchen in the direction of the bathroom. "Really hoping you don't need me to hold it for you..."

"You are ridiculously childish," Sherlock growled as he slammed the door after himself.

* * *

Just over an hour later, John arrived home to assess the damage. He found Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his phone clutched in both hands, frowning in the dim lighted reflection of the screen. John paused in the doorway, watching him in amusement for a few seconds. "Greg's already given me the details," he said, letting his satchel slide from his arm and onto the floor at his feet. "What are you looking so tragic for?"

"The Internet says I've broken my spine," Sherlock announced, throwing the phone down onto the cushion at his elbow. It promptly toppled onto the floor, taking the phone with it, but Sherlock appeared not to notice. He looked down despondently at his bare feet and wriggled his toes, as if checking that they still worked.

John pulled a wry face. "Yeah, well. The actual doctor in the room says it's really unlikely that you've broken anything. You've probably just pulled soft tissue and just need an ice pack, a cuppa and a ticket from the transit police to learn your lesson. I _told_ you you were going to hurt yourself with that bloody Zorro act." He stooped to retrieve both the phone and the cushion and put them on Sherlock's knees. "You know," he said, "when I told you to stop calling me at work, I didn't mean that you couldn't call me if you injure yourself. I mean, if there's anything you absolutely can call me at the office about, it's that. Would you seriously have just stayed on the floor until I got home, if Greg hadn't picked up?"

Sherlock shrugged. In truth, he might have had to call Molly Hooper for help. Good old Molly could keep a secret. Probably. Despite the fact that there was a half-full cup of coffee at his elbow, he was about to open his mouth to ask John for another one when there was a rap on the open shutters leading to the kitchen and Lestrade poked his head in.

"Okay, that's me off, then," he said, giving a vague sort of salute.

"Sure you won't stay?" John asked.

"Yeah. I left Donovan in charge. She's a good worker, but it's all hands on deck for this bloody Hinkel murder case."

"Getting anywhere with it?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Everyone who has a motive has an alibi. Nobody _without_ an alibi has a motive. Anyway, I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Sherlock sat deep in thought as Lestrade clattered down the flat stairs. On a scale of _Coma_ _Inducing_ to _Magnificently_ _Interesting_ , the Hinkel case rated about a three - the husband's alibi was the only thing that raised it above the sort of case he'd even skip if he saw it reported in a newspaper. But then, Lestrade's commentary on alibis and motives had been interesting. If everyone who had a motive to kill the Hinkels really was accounted for, it was just possible that this was the work of a random psychopath. And those were _always_ interesting.

"John!" he exclaimed, just as he heard the thud of the door downstairs opening. John, who had been in the kitchen rummaging around for something to eat, appeared in the doorway.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock attempted a leap to his feet, which turned out to be a bad idea; he had to settle for a dramatic arm gesture. "Go with Lestrade. Hurry up!"

"What? Why?" Without waiting for an answer, John stepped onto the first-floor landing. "Greg," he called down the staircase. "Hang on a minute." He turned back to Sherlock. "You want me to check out the case for you, give you the details?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow a little, but otherwise did not respond.

"Thought you said it was too boring to be bothered with-?" John sighed and resigned himself to a long night and a late dinner. "Fine, okay." He patted his jeans pockets and looked around for his wallet, swiping it up from where it sat on the coffee table. "Stay by the phone, okay?"

Sherlock glanced at the phone in his lap. "I don't think that's going to be a problem," he said.


End file.
